


A Tonic For What Ails You

by Cazio



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Cazio, Letters, M/M, Oneshot, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, a tonic for what ails you, and three random dudes, homeless!steve, the whole shebang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:47:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2068815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cazio/pseuds/Cazio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is not a man built to live on the streets of Brooklyn. Bucky Barnes is not a man built for war.</p><p>  <i>Outsider POV. Oneshot. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tonic For What Ails You

**Author's Note:**

> patent medicine: compounds promoted and sold as medical cures that do not work as promoted. examples include: magic elixirs, miracle tonics, snake oil, and liniments.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _"Hope: the patent medicine for disease, disaster, and sin." - Wallace Rice_  
> 

 

The kid’s name was Steve. He claimed he was twenty four, but the man had never seen a twenty four year-old look that little. He guessed Steve was probably fifteen, if that. Well, until the man heard him talking, and boy, did Steve talk. About the war, venting his patriotic frustration about being unable to enlist, about how crummy it was that he couldn’t help the war effort. Steve claimed that was why he was here; because he couldn’t make enough money to keep the apartment he’d been living in for over a year with his best friend. The man thought it was curious that his best friend would join the war and leave, but Steve explained that they’d both gone to enlist the same day and his friend—Bucky—had gotten in, but Steve hadn’t.

Everyone in the alley, all five of them, made bets on how long Steve would survive on the streets. The man bet four months. The Irishman bet a weekand the rest were somewhere in between.

“Watcha lookin’ at boy?” the man asked one evening when the clouds were gone and the sky was clear except for factory smog.

“I’m not lookin’, I’m drawing,” Steve replied, readjusting the collar of his coat.

The man moved closer, inspecting the paper on Steve’s lap supported by a weathered old book that he recognized as the one that had been lying beside a trash pile for weeks.

On the paper was a man staring back at him, smirking, his hat askew.

“That’s Bucky,” Steve said.

“Your friend,” the man said, bunching his shoulders to pull his rags into a more comfortable position around his neck where they rested as a makeshift scarf.

Steve turned to look up at him, a smile on his face. It gave off a childish innocence despite Steve’s eyes being rung with red and underscored by dark circles.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “That’s him.”

The man was growing old, so he could not sit down so easily, but he managed to find a broken wooden crate perch on. He would take it back to his home later, which was only a few steps away.

“Did he send you any letters?” the man asked, because he knew many in the war did such things. Poor writers, most of them, but they did write.

Steve seemed to burst with joy. “Yeah! Wanna see?”

The man cocked a brow. Not many homeless were that excited about much of anything. Warm days were cursed, cold days were cursed. The rest were a blur as they all sought to find something to eat and water to drink. Steve was the only one in their alley with a job, and he spent most all of his earned money buying food for the lot of them.

The man took the worn paper in his hands, squinting in the dim light to make out the words.

 

_Steve,_

_Things are going swell out here. It’s hot as shit and there ain’t any broads around except for the nurses. They like me, but it’s against the rules to hang around them too long.  Didn’t stop me, of course. Anyway, boot camp is a major drag. They got us doing all this nutball training—I ain’t gonna be running 15 miles in a day over there. And I’m the best shot in this group—even the guys from farms can’t shoot for shit and they’ve been shooting real guns all their life. But hey, we must have done pretty good practice with those BB guns, huh?_

_Sorry I haven’t written you. I didn’t really think I was gonna be this busy. Are you okay? How is everything? I swear to God if Eddy Worth beat on you again I’ll kick his ass. I get my first payday soon, I’m gonna send you some so you can start taking art classes again. Don’t give me any lip about it either, got it?_

_Trust me, Steve, this really ain’t all that fun. It’s better you’re at home. Please don’t tell me you’ve still been trying to get in. You don’t wanna be hanging around schmucks like me. You’ve got five times the brain I’ve got—you gotta stay home._

_I’ll write you soon, okay?_

_Bucky_

 

The man smacked his lips after reading it, the closest he had come to a laugh for some time. He remembered the days when women and money dictated his every decision.

“Are you going to write him back?” the man asked.

Steve gave a sheepish smile and shrugged. “I dunno what to write. He doesn’t know I’m out here.”

The man nodded grimly. “Has Eddy Worth caused you any trouble?”

Steve’s smile faded a little. “Nah. He’s gone. Shipped out a week after Bucky did.”

“Mm.” The man nodded once more.

They didn’t speak for the rest of that evening, but the man stayed in his seat and watched the sun dye the sky orange and pink as Steve sketched beside him. The rats began to come out soon after the sun had set, and he had to kick one of the large ones away from his pant leg.

The alley wasn’t the worst that the man had ever lived in. It was dirty, but not filthy. No horses had ever spent their time there, which was a rarity in the backstreets of Brooklyn, and there was only one stray dog, which belonged to the bald man who lived beneath the stairwell. He kept it chained throughout the day, and the only disturbance it ever caused was at night when it ate rats.

The man knew that Steve only lived there so that he could talk to the mailman, who was kind enough to bring the boy his letters even though he no longer lived in the apartment there. The man tried to show Steve a better spot to sleep, but the boy insisted upon sleeping on a mat he’d put on top of a few crates . Steve said he was sick very often, so he needed to sleep wherever was the most dry.

 

 

******

 

Weeks later the man woke to the noise of crinkling paper. Through the sliver of light he could see through the cloth of his home, he saw Steve clutching another letter. The man grunted and stuck his head out of his home, noting the way Steve’s shoulders sank in far too much.

“He’s going to Europe,” Steve said excitedly once he noticed the man. “He’s probably there by now! What a thing, huh?”

 

*******

 

“’Ee ain’t gonna last the month,” the Irishman said, taking a hard bite out of the apple Steve had given him.

The man shook his head as he stitched up his jacket. Steve’s wet coughs filled the alley, but no one moved to help. They all knew a dying man when they heard one. Even the man did not move, though he did like the boy. Helping others was for good Christian folk. They were Christian, but they weren’t good folk.

“Post for Mr. Rogers.”

The man and the Irishman looked up to see the mailman standing there with a frown.

“ ‘M—“ Steve started coughing as he emerged from beneath his little tent he’d created with some clothesline and a blanket. “ ‘M right here,” Steve croaked.

Steve’s hand was shaking so hard that the man saw it from his spot in the middle of the alley. He stood as Steve began to try and open the letter, shuffling over to the boy.

“Would you like me to read it to you?” the man offered, because he could at least do that.

“Y-yes,” Steve whispered, his eyes fluttering closed.

Steve was the palest human the man had ever seen. And he’d seen lily-white hookers that hadn’t ever known sun before.

“All right,” the man said, clearing his throat.

 

_Steve,_

_Just got here in Italy a few days ago. A little town called [SECTION REDACTED]. You’d like it here a lot, I bet. It’s real pretty—lots of pink flowers and big fields. I’ve never seen fields like these, Stevie. So big you could lose yourself in ‘em. The place we’re living at ain’t quite as pretty, but it’ll do._

_I hope you’re taking care of yourself, Steve. Start buying your cough medicine now, okay? You need a few extra bottles and a nice big spoon. And remember: if you start feeling cold, you take a cold bath. No use letting the fever burn you up. I swear I’ll pluck you outta the grave and kill you again if I find out you haven’t been taking care of yourself._

_I know you won’t like me for this, but I promised I’d tell you everything. I started smokin’ sometimes. Just sometimes. I ain’t addicted to ‘em like some of these fellas. Just sometimes when there’s nothin’ to do and there ain’t any girls around. Something about them is real comforting. I wish you could try one. Might help you from gettin’ so nervous around dames._

_Tomorrow we get so see some action. That’s what my CO says anyway. I can’t wait. We’ve been hearing a lotta gunshots around here. Don’t worry though, I’m keepin’ safe._

_I didn’t get a letter from you before I left. Did you send one yet? I wanna here about all the gals you’ve been seeing._

_Miss ya,_

_Bucky_

 

The man caught a ghost of a smile on Steve’s lips as he folded up the paper and put it back in the envelope. He placed the envelope under Steve’s hand, watching with some sordid fascination as Steve’s lungs pushed his entire ribcage up and down.

Steve’s fingers curled around the letter and the man returned to the Irishman to continue sewing his coat.

 

******

 

Somehow, Steve did not die. The man could not look at him for too long though, because the boney figure that came out from beneath that cloth tent hardly looked human. But Steve ate warm bread and meat, and the man knew he would regain the weight he had lost.

The man saw that Steve read his letters constantly, sounding the words out on his lips and running his fingers across them like they were God’s.

 

******

 

The man returned to the alley with a paper bag full of stale bread pieces from the bakery to find Steve staring at his sketchbook, drawing nothing.

For hours he sat and did not once pick up his pencil, nor move, aside from blinking and breathing. The man saw rage in his eyes. And anguish.  Steve was not a man who showed such feelings except when the newspaper boys had tried to steal the bag of groceries he’d bought. Steve had been the same size as the boys, but he’d given them a good kick in the ass. Even the Irishman had laughed.

Steve went to work shortly after the man returned, and the man noticed that a new letter had arrived. Without a moment’s hesitation, he opened it. There was no such thing as privacy once a man no longer had a home.

 

_Steve,_

_Got your letter._

_Things ain’t good here. Don’t you dare try coming out here, Stevie. You hear me? I ain’t writing this because I don’t think you can do it. I’m writing this because you can’t come here. I can’t let you see the things I’ve seen out here._

_Those fields I told you about are full of bodies, Steve. Dead men. There’s dead men everywhere. Rotting and stinking and covered in flies. Can’t take a piss without pissin’ on a dead man. There ain’t no one out here to move ‘em, so they just sit there in the grass. Sometimes they pile ‘em up. You ever smelled a dead man before? You can’t get it off ya, Steve. It’s like slime and it won’t go away._

_I wanna go home. I wanna see you and I wanna come home and never ever come back here again. This ain’t fun, Steve. This ain’t anything more than killin’ people in cold blood._

_I’m glad you’re safe. Thank God you ain’t gotten sick yet. I’ve been using that rosary my Ma got me every day prayin’ for you._

_Stay safe,_

_Bucky_

 

But that was not all. There was another piece of paper where the handwriting was more scrawled and the letters uneven.

 

_I wasn’t gonna write this, but I can’t keep it in anymore, Stevie. I can’t. So just don’t read this, even though I know you will anyway. But you’re all I got, Steve. You gotta know everything I know. I hate doin’ this to you, but you gotta know. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry._

_My CO was KIA before we left Italy. We were goin’ across these hills, up toward Austria. In those big pretty fields. He was shot and killed by a Kraut who got a lucky shot. Then they put me in charge until we got where we needed to go._

_Five guys with me. Rusty, Belford, Sappy, Johnson, and Cliff. Belford went to scout and came back and said there was a big ugly machine gun to our left, so we went right. Crawled through the grass like babies until we’d gotten around the machine gun. Sorry I’m writing this so short, I don’t have much time and I don’t wanna remember this anymore than I have to._

_Sappy—have I told you about Sappy? I probably have, I don’t know. His real name is Ryan Dennison, but we named him Sappy because he started cryin’ our first night in. Sounds mean, but you had to meet him, Stevie. Anyways, Sappy stands up once we reach this road and he says there’s a dog. We all like dogs so we’re happy to see the dog. It doesn’t see us ‘til Sappy gives a shout._

_The dog starts running, but not in a mean way, Steve. It had a smile. You know how dogs smile? It smiled. And it ran down the road, all big and black and furry. Then it jumps up and puts its big ol’ paws on Sappy’s shoulders like it’s gonna give him a big sloppy kiss._

_It tore his throat out. Ripped it right out of his neck._

_I never seen what a throat looks like before. It’s like a red rubber tube.  Someone shot the damn dog. I don’t like dogs. Not anymore. I hate dogs. I hate them so fucking much._

_Worst part was that Sappy didn’t die right off the bat. He was holdin’ his neck, tryin’ to push it back together again. He was tryin’ to say somethin’, but he couldn’t make any sounds anymore. I gave him a morphine stick and he looked me in the eyes real scared._

_There’s still blood all over my uniform. No place to wash it off. It was a Kraut dog._

 

There was nothing else written on the paper, so the man put it back in the envelope and returned to his hut, huddling down in his cloths until Steve returned that night, his eyes wide and unseeing as he moved around in the darkness and curled up on his crates. The man could see that Steve’s eyes were open, staring into the clouds that masked the stars above.

 

******

 

Steve wrote letters more often after that. The man often saw him scrawling away on his sketch paper, catching glimpses of the stories Steve made up about how warm the apartment was this year, or how the neighbors made him hot stew.

“So you’re lying to him,” the man said.

“No, I’m stretching the truth,” Steve snapped, huddling tighter into his ragged blanket. Summer had ended and winter would be upon them soon. The man had begun preparing for the frost and cold, collecting spare fabric and flour sacks. Steve hadn’t started doing any of that—he probably didn’t know to.

“Sounds like a fancy way of saying you’re lying.”

“Well it ain’t. Bucky would kill me if he knew I was living out here,” Steve said. “He’s been sendin’ money and I ain’t gonna ask him for more. I don’t have the money for an apartment and that’s that.”

“From what you’ve told me, he’s awfully worried about you getting sick,” the man said, watching Steve’s blue eyes go a little distant.

“He’s always worried about that. Always thinks I’m too cold.” Steve sighed, raking his fingers through his combed hair. The man found it funny that Steve still had a comb lying around. That he still cared enough to use it.

“Where is he now?” the man asked.

Steve frowned. “I dunno. Army’s been crossin’ out the names. But wherever he is, he’s been smoking more. I could smell it on his last one.”

“A lot of men smoke.” The man shrugged.

“Not Bucky.” Steve shook his head. “Not before, anyway. He’s changed now. He doesn’t sound the same.”

“Sound the same?”

“Yeah.” Steve picked up his most recent letter—the man could tell because the edges weren’t yet crinkled and feathery like the others. “He doesn’t write much anymore. He just wants to know what I’m doing. He wants to come home.”

The man chuckled. “Every soldier wants to come home.”

Steve coughed harshly into his sleeve, looking downright miserable. His nose was runny and his eyes were bloodshot and covered in a shiny film that warned of impending sickness. “I want Bucky home. I don’t feel good knowing he’s out there.”

The man thought about the dog and said nothing in return.

“Frost’s coming,” the bald man croaked from beneath the stairwell. “Just heard some broads talkin’ ‘bout it inside. Think they need someone ta keep ‘em warm?”

The man laughed.

Steve did not.

 

 

******

 

“Found’im two blocks over,” the Irishman said with ice in his reddish beard. He had Steve slung over his shoulder, barely breathing.

The man shuffled over, his old bones creaking in the cold as the Irishman opened up the flap of Steve’s home.  Steve was thinner than the man ever remembered seeing him—the curves of his skill were visible even from far off.

“What was he doing over there?” the man asked.

Then he saw Steve’s black eye and bloody lip.

“Fucker tried to fight a kid,” the Irishman said. “One punch knocked ‘im right to the ground."

Steve’s eyes fluttered and he let out a raspy wheeze—the closest he ever got to coughing anymore. A ghostly hand trembled as it reached out, clutching the man’s tattered coat.

“ ‘Ee’s your problem now, fella,” the Irishman grunted before continuing down the alley.

The man crouched as much as his body would let him.

Steve released his coat and moved his hand to his own pocket, tugging at something inside. When he couldn’t pull it out, the man reached his hand in and pulled out a letter addressed to Bucky, though the man could only make out the letter B.

“I’ll keep it safe for you,” the man promised.

He helped Steve beneath his rags and blankets once he had pocketed the letter. Steve’s cheeks were dusted pink from fever, but that was the only sign that there was any blood left in the boy’s body. His breaths were quick and shallow.

“Buck,” Steve rasped.

The man frowned. “Your friend isn’t here.”

Steve’s hand reached out again, the faintest of smiles on his lips. “Coming back,” Steve whispered.

The man’s brow furrowed.

Steve wheezed once, then closed his eyes. “’S comin’ back.”

 

******

 

Steve’s wheezing stopped just before sunrise.

 

******

 

The bald man was the first who investigated. The Irishman spat a wad of tobacco on the ground, fidgeting with his thick wool mittens that he had stolen from a rich man who had wandered too far into the depths of Brooklyn. The man sat idle, Steve’s letter tucked into his shirt.

The bald man pulled his head out of the tent with a wrinkled nose.

“Dead,” he said.

“Fuck,” said the Irishman.

The man wondered if Bucky had stopped praying.

 

******

 

They all sat a ways behind Steve’s tent, huddled around a few hot coals shielded from the wind by one of Steve’s drawing crates. A day had passed, but they had yet to move the body. For some reason, it didn’t seem right. Not yet.

“Well, when?” said the bald man.

“How long’d it take ya ta move the Greaseball?” the Irishman asked, his lip fat with tobacco.

“I didn’t move him. His friends did. The ones that cut him to pieces and stuffed him in a goddamn barrel!” the bald man snapped.

The man stared at the sidewalk. Few people walked by in the dead of winter, and those that did were slow and moving stiffly. Men in thick coats and fur boots, women in heavy dresses and dainty gloves.

So the man noticed when a young man ran past, nearly slipping in the ice. The bald man and the Irishman looked up, startled by the movement.

A door slammed close by, and the man’s stomach churned. The three of them listened as quick footsteps ran up the stairwell until they could no longer hear them.  The man knew who it was, but prayed he had simply been mistaken.

Moments later and the footsteps returned, louder and more forceful than before. The door slammed again and the young man appeared at the end of their alley, marching up to them with fury in his eyes.

“You fellas know a Steve Rogers?”

The Irishman pointed to Steve’s tent. “In there.”

A strange quiet befell them as they watched Bucky—the man knew it was Bucky by his cockeyed cap—go to the tent and throw open the flap. Just as Steve had told him he would be, Bucky looked angry.

All they could see was his back, but they knew when the realization hit him by the way Bucky’s shoulders locked. He fell to his knees.

“Had frost on his eyes this mornin’,” the bald man whispered.

The man closed his eyes when a ragged, unholy sound broke from Bucky’s throat. It reverberated off of the brick so horribly that the bald man’s dog let out a whine.

“I’ll warm ya up, Stevie, I’ll warm ya right up, okay?” Bucky said in a crumbling voice. He reached into the tent and pulled out Steve’s body, still curled up as it had been yesterday. Bucky pulled Steve right into his lap, sobbing brokenly into frozen blonde hair.

“Wake up!” Bucky sobbed. “You ain’t dead. You said you weren’t sick—Steve, you lied to me! You _lied_ to me!” Bucky’s hands fisted into Steve’s threadbare jacket and the Irishman stood, retreating back into the alley. The bald man followed him.

The man wanted to vomit the more he listened to Bucky’s grieving. His sobs—his horrible sobs were pulled from the deepest parts of himself. The man knew that Bucky had grieved over many men just from reading his letters, but he could not imagine that Bucky had ever made sounds so awful before.

“We-we’ll go real quick and g-get—I’ll getcha some tonic, huh?” Bucky curled his arms tighter around Steve as a cold wind breezed through the alley. “Getcha some tonic…that’ll f-fix ya right up.”

Bucky burst into a fit of tears again, burying his face into Steve’s hair with a horrible little crunching sound. “Oh, god, Stevie. Oh god. Oh god.” Bucky’s shoulders shuddered hard. “Why now, huh? Why the fuck now? I told ya I was comin’ back. Oh, Steve—Oh Jesus.”

The man closed his eyes.

“What am I supposed to do, Steve?” Bucky cried in a broken voice. “What the fuck am I gonna do without you here? Who’s gonna tell me stories? Who the fuck’s gonna get me in trouble? Oh God. Oh _God_.”

Bucky dissolved into quieter, but no less terrible crying. His entire body shook with the force of his despair, Steve’s body a lifeless bundle in his arms.

The man approached slowly, taking care not to seem like he was sneaking.

When Bucky whipped around to face him, the man froze without meaning to. Never before had he seen such rage in another human being.

“You better get the fuck away from him,” Bucky spat. “Get the fuck away! When I find out who hurt him, I’ll skin you all alive. Every last one of ya.”

The man reached into his pocket with a shaking hand and extended the envelope into the frozen air.

“Steve asked me to—“

“Well he didn’t tell me nothin’, so fuck off!” Bucky screamed. He gripped Steve closer to him in what the man could tell was a movement that had been done thousands of times. Bucky was Steve’s brother and protector, even though Steve had shown them that he could fend for himself longer than anyone could have ever predicted.

The man placed the letter on top of Steve’s sketchbook and retreated to his home, watching Bucky through the embers and smoke of their fire until he stood.

The man saw Bucky pick up the envelope before he hoisted Steve up into his arms.

“You’re such a softie, Rogers. Writin’ me notes when I’m gonna be right here. Let’s get ya to the doc. He’ll give you some a that—that tonic and I won’t let nobody give you any more shiners. Not ever again.”

Bucky paused, and looked back at the alley.

“Let’s go, Stevie. Gonna get cold soon. I ain’t gonna let ya get sick.”

 

 

_Bucky,_

_I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about some pretty stupid things. Girls, mostly. I stopped by the dance hall just last night and saw a real pretty dame in a red dress. She had a glass of whiskey in her hand, and I’ll have you know she didn’t spill one drop while she danced. I think girls got it tough, dancing around like that in those heels._

_But I was thinking about you too. I know you said not to read that letter you wrote about Sappy, but I did anyway, just like you said. I didn’t want to tell you before. I don’t like dogs either anymore._

_Part of me wishes I was there with you for that. I could have helped Sappy and saved you the trouble. I know it hurts you more than you’re telling me. Even without seeing you, I know that. You’re very brave, Bucky, and I know you jumped right in to help because you always do.  Still, you don’t always gotta be brave. If I were there, I’d let you not be brave. Even if you were my Sergeant, I’d never tell anyone because you’re my best friend. I hope you always let yourself feel, even when it’s sad. You let me feel when my mom passed. I owe ya._

_Anyway, I wanted to tell you something. I haven’t been feeling real well lately. This time it hurts real bad and I think I know this time. This time is the time. When you find me, when you get this letter, you might have to take it from my body and I’m sorry if that happens. That was probably the worst thing you’ve ever done and it hurts so bad because I swore I’d never let myself be something bad for you. So I’m sorry._

_It isn’t all bad though, Buck. These past few days I’ve been feeling lots of things I’ve never felt before. That’s how I know this is the last letter I’m ever gonna write. I can just feel it, but I don’t feel sad. You shouldn’t either but I know you will for a long time. There’s just a lot of things that I never realized weighed me down until right now. It’s like riding that spinning thing at Coney Island, except this time I’m not getting sick. Okay, I am sick, but you get what I mean, right?_

_I want you to know that you were the most important person in my life. I love you more than I’ve ever loved any other human being—and yes, I’m including my mom and that mouse from when I was seven. Probably more than I’d ever love any gal—that sounds bad. What I mean is that no one will ever be as close to me as you. Take it whatever way you want, Bucky. I don’t care. I just need you to know that forever—that’s why I wrote it down, so you could have it even when I’m not there to say it to your stupid face. You aren’t stupid though. I know you know that, but I don’t want to leave you thinkin’ I might have meant it when I didn’t._

_Sometimes when I close my eyes now it feels warm. I’m going to a good place, Buck. I know I’m going to heaven, so you don’t have to worry about that. And I feel comfortable. I know that sounds funny, but I am. Like I said, when I close my eyes it’s warm. I can even feel grass on my fingertips, like I’m in one of those fields you talked about. But what they were like before the war._

_I miss you, Bucky. I’m gonna die missing you, but that’s okay because I know you’re safe and you’re coming home soon. I want you to get those cream sodas and root beer floats you missed so much. I want you happy. You aren’t allowed to be sad. I can’t be happy where I’m going unless I know you’re happy too._

_There’s money in my pencil case—it’s yours. The men that live in that alley are nice and they took good care of me when they could._

_You stay safe, Bucky Barnes,_

_Steve_


End file.
